大象传媒

This is one of my father's stories, which he wrote for my brother and I in 1990.

'Tommy Atkins', November 1944

Park Prewelt Hospital, near Basingstoke had been built to house the mentally ill. Now, it was an Emergency Medical Services (EMS) hospital, its patients young soldiers who had been wounded in the battles raging across North West Europe.

Each ward drew its nurses and sisters from a different London hospital, one of which was St George's, at Hyde Park Corner. The patients arrived by ambulance from a nearby airfield, having been flown there in specially adapted Dakotas.

Above every bed was a child's slate on which was chalked rank, name, number and regiment of the occupant - except for the slate above one bed, on which was written simply 'Tommy Atkins'.

Tommy was deeply unconscious, and had been flown in from 101 General Hospital, Brussels. As was, regrettably, often the case, the silver chain around the neck that carried the identity disk was missing. Hence 'Tommy Atkins', the sobriquet of the British soldier since the Boer War or before.

When Tommy regained consciousness, it was discovered that he was totally unable to recall his name, his past, or what he had been doing to become so comprehensively injured.

His right arm and leg was in plaster, his ribs were tightly strapped and his head heavily bandaged.

Nurses, sisters, doctors and patients all tried to find the trigger that would release the memory. A nurse with a dictionary, having as an appendix a list of common Christian names, patiently read through from A to Z without success.

Many patients were commandos, but they all agreed that Tommy's frame was too slight for him to be one of them. Tankies, signalmen, gunners, they all tried their particular jargon, but no flicker of recognition rewarded their efforts.

First success came to the Padre, who tried a long shot. Clasping Tommy's left hand he intoned, 'I believe in God...'

'I believe in God, the Father Almighty,' replied Tommy and proceeded to recite the whole of the Creed. So far, so good, but Tommy still did not know who he was.

The breakthrough came from an unexpected quarter. In the afternoons the local ladies came to visit the 'poor wounded heroes', bringing cigarettes and cakes. At Tommy's bed one lady said, 'Oh, you poor boy, you don't look old enough to be a soldier.' Tommy replied, 'I'm not a soldier, I'm a sailor and my name is Charles!'

The first task was to send a policeman round to Queens Road to deliver the good news to my family. Then came the naval officers with their endless questions.

All I knew was that we had been spotting for the monitor, HMS Roberts, and had manoeuvred closer and closer to the shore, where the Royal Marines were being mown down in their hundreds. [This was most likely at Walcheren, aboard a motor launch.]

My own theory was that we had been trying to draw the fire of the German artillery and so give the commandos some sort of chance. However, no posthumous medals or awards were issued and the remainder of our crew remained posted 'missing, believed drowned'.

Getting the good chocolate

After Christmas, now mobile but weak and suffering vicious recurring headaches, I was transferred to Mill Hill EMS Hospital. This was in the buildings of the public school, which had evacuated at the outbreak of war. I was the only sailor among hundreds of soldiers, most of whom appeared to be trying for medical discharge.

When the doctors learned that I intended to try for university after the war I was warned to lower my sights, since invalided personnel would probably be graded too weak to withstand a degree course. And so I determined not to be invalided.

I think I must have been quite a nuisance to the medical authorities. For instance, once a week an Army Pay Corps officer came to the hospital to issue each of us with the standard 50 pence that was allowed from our pay to cover shaving tackle, chocolate rations and so on.

A NAAFI wagon was drawn up on the parade ground behind the pay desk and the ration was one bar of chocolate. Early arrivals received Cadbury's Dairy Milk, the rest more and more obscure brands of plain chocolate.

The first two weeks I paraded with the rest, but by the time they had called, in alphabetical order, 'Royal Army this that and the other' the Royal Navy was left with plain chocolate.

And so I complained that the Senior Service was being insulted by being called after so many Army regiments!

Sure enough, next week the parade was startled to hear the first name called... 'Royal Navy'. I marched to the table, removed my cap and slapped it in front of the officer. 'Salute for your pay,' said the NCO alongside him. 'This is the way the Navy do it sir,' I replied!

No complaints, sir

In February 1945, now quite fit apart from the persistent headaches, I was transferred to the Haslar Royal Navy Hospital, quite near to my original base at HMS Hornet.

After assessment I was sent home on 14 days leave and then transferred to a rest camp at Belmont Park, Bedhampton, near Havant, to await the invaliding board.

Still determined not to be invalided I scanned the notice board for the use of the (fit) camp permanent staff. A posting was on offer for a Navigator Yeoman. I applied and was sent with some other ratings to the RN Barracks, Portsmouth, where an officer explained that the party involved working in the chart room of the Commander-in-Chief, RN Pacific Fleet, stationed in Australia. What a job!

I did the rounds of the various officers, whose signatures were needed before a posting could be carried out. All OK till I came to the Medical Officer, who examined me briefly and asked 'any problems?' 'No sir,' I replied innocently, 'apart from the headaches.' A short wait whilst the doctor made some telephone calls, then a swift return to Belmont Park, medically unsuitable.

I waited impatiently for another suitable posting, and in April 1945 it appeared.

'Personnel of all ratings required for Naval Parties, to supervise the dismantling of the enemy naval installations in Germany and Japan.'

Off to Portsmouth Barracks again, doing the rounds, and once again in front of the doctor. 'Any complaints?' 'No sir.' Passed.

Where would it be, Germany or Japan? Off I went to a camp in Hayling Island, equipped with rifle and bayonet, and a khaki uniform on which I sewed the shoulder flashes 'Royal Navy'.

And so, in April, I found myself on the back of a lorry, as we drove through devastated Europe, en route for Heligoland or the north German ports, nobody seemed to be quite sure which.

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